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There are many ways to end up as an old person. In the very best cases, we humans retain our humor, our interest in our neighbors, and our zest for life. |
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Saturday morning we went out to buy a few things, hoping to beat the crowds and get done quickly. After finding some of the items on our list at Wal Mart, we declared partial victory and headed for the checkout line. We were patiently waiting our turn (there is always a line), when a voice behind me said, "Hello ladies." I turned to see who it was, and standing there was a man I've known since I was 18 years old. Although I'll always think of him as "The Professor", some folks these days call him the "candy man" because it describes quite literally what he does. He spends most of his time every day hanging out at the local Wal Mart, pushing a shopping cart loaded with several bags of hard candy around the store, for the sole purpose of befriending anyone he takes a fancy to and giving away his treats. He generally adds a friendly comment or two. And a big smile. And mostly to women. As an unpaid ambassador of sorts, I would guess that the management of the store has kept an eye on him to make sure he's not scaring off customers. To their credit, they have allowed him to continue his mission, though I suspect they have given a little guidance. For instance, he always politely asks if you can have regular candy or prefer sugar-free, either for health or weight watching reasons. Wouldn't want someone to sue the store or something. This acceptance may be in part because of one of the things that comes with living in a small town - the tendency for unusual people to be "known". I suspect the candy man's unusual behavior would get scarcely a glance in a big city, but he would also get the quick boot from any store, lest he offend someone. Mothers would undoubtedly shoo their children away from a man who offers everyone a piece of candy. Many people in town have known the candy man for a long time, since in his former life, he was a master potter; an artisan extraordinaire. In his last working years, his consummate skill and gregarious nature earned him a premier location to ply his craft, a special pottery wheel inside a big store that attracts visitors from all over. He was a star attraction, talking to customers of all ages all day as they marveled at how he turned lumps of clay into finished vessels. That was before he retired, then had a stroke, then eventually recovered from it. It was in this former life that I first met the candy man. In fact, it was in my former life as well. My first real job, which I got when I turned 18 the summer between high school and college, was as a laborer at the local pottery plant. The labor gang I was a part of had four or five people, and we worked ten-hour days, four days a week. Our job was removing finished red-clay flower pots from the giant walk-in kilns when they had barely cooled enough to keep from burning our hands through gloves. Within an hour of starting work each day, literally every stitch of our clothing would be wet from sweating, head to toe. Our bodies were like sponges - the gallons of water we drank throughout the day migrated quickly out our pores in a futile effort to take some of the heat away. By the end of each day, we would be exhausted. It was only our youth that allowed us to recover by the next morning, ready for another 10 hours. By the end of the summer, we were all lean machines indeed. The highlight of each work day for me was lunch time, which lasted 45 minutes. This was when I would head up to the front where the potters were hand turning the white stoneware, the churns, pitchers, and crocks, the strawberry jars, spittoons, and rabbit feeders. Most of the workers would eat quickly, then take a nap until work resumed, but I wasn't about to waste my time sleeping. One of those potters was kind enough to take me on as an apprentice apprentice (as in complete novice) and try to teach me how to throw a pot. I went through enough lumps of clay to be able to make some small things, but I never quite got the hang of larger things, as they tended to become unstable and fly apart at some point of the pulling up process. The potters told me it just took lots of practice, but I knew I wasn't going to get there before summer was over. They just laughed along with me as I would inevitably make a muddy mess. Another of the potters took a particular liking to us youngsters. He was recognized among his peers as the fastest potter in the place, turning out copy after copy of whatever was on the schedule with blazing speed. Under the precise pressure applied by his strong and capable hands, the clay seemed to just spring into a finished form in seconds. I never saw him have to discard a failed attempt like I almost always did. In those fleeting weeks of summer, our potter friend would share his perspective on most any topic my friends and I could come up with. In our limited experience, we were rather amazed at his insight. He would talk with us in ways that other adults in our lives, people like our parents, wouldn't. Thus, we anointed him Professor of Life. He thought that was just grand, and the lessons just got better. For many years after, I made it a point to visit the Professor when I came home. He seemed to never change, always ready with some off-the-wall comment or some shared memory from that educational summer that would set me laughing again. I lost touch after he retired though, and I only heard about his health problems second hand. When he spoke to me in the Wal Mart yesterday, he had no idea who it was he was calling young lady and smiling at as he offered his bag of candy. As I unwrapped the piece, I thought about calling him Professor, which would have instantly made him ask how I knew him by that name. But there didn't seem to be much point. Both of us were living different lives back then, and it feels OK to keep the past as a fond memory and move on. Besides, his new role as the candy man isn't so different from his old role as the Professor. He still befriends everyone who comes his way and puts a little joy and laughter in their day. Not a bad way to spend your time if you ask me.
12/7/03 |
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Last Update 4/3/04 |